


New Orleans = chapter 4 in full version

by I_am_lampy



Series: The "It's All Fine" Collected Works Deluxe Edition [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Canon-Typical Violence, Homophobic Language, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 22:35:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11171493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: Sherlock gets caught downloading information from Blaine’s laptop...Blaine is standing in the living room blinking at Sherlock, looking groggy but becoming more focused by the second...now he must die.





	New Orleans = chapter 4 in full version

**Author's Note:**

> I've followed a non-canon compliant timeline because it works better for these stories. It's not terribly important, but for clarity's sake, this is all you need to know:
> 
> June 2011: (canon) Sherlock fakes his death  
> September 2011: (this AU) Sherlock fakes his death  
> January 2012: Sherlock is in New Orleans  
> March 2012: John meets Gerald

* * *

Four months after faking his death, Sherlock is on a plane bound for New Orleans, Louisiana where he will work with the FBI to begin dismantling the human trafficking ring that spans two continents and is spearheaded by four of Moriarty's lieutenants. These are the men who answered to nobody but Moriarty.

Sherlock has just spent four wasted months in an MI6 semi-secret facility training how to do what he's already been doing since he was a teenager - how to blend in, observe, collect data, and neutralize any impediments to the completion of the mission.

Sherlock is now, finally, on his way to doing what he needs to do to get the target off his back and, therefore, from off John's back and everyone else Sherlock loves. Mycroft wanted Sherlock to hide out in the countryside, but he knew it was a lost cause before he even introduced the idea to Sherlock because Sherlock is more of a danger to John if he's left idle than if he's sent out to do something to help rid the world of the tangled web Moriarty spun. Besides, Sherlock is a valuable asset - he's the only person in the world who knows the way Moriarty thinks.

The FBI and MI6 have already coordinated with each other; a target and mission have been set. All Sherlock must do is see it through to the end without either getting killed or blowing his cover. The target is a man called Blaine Whitney, the second in command. Blaine Whitney is gay, something only a handful of people in the world know. As Sherlock is constantly reminded, "over five hundred hours of surveillance and the death of an FBI agent has gone into finding out this information."

Whitney has a wife and son in New Orleans, but he keeps a flat in the French Quarter where he takes his lovers. He keeps his lovers for more than one night but not longer than three weeks. It's also likely, or so the FBI and MI6 hope, that Whitney may store evidence of his criminal activities at the flat. Anything that Sherlock finds that might help them to dismantle the New Orleans branch of the trafficking ring is to be recorded and turned into Sherlock’s FBI handler, Emery Tate.

The mission was outlined for Sherlock when he was still on the private jet that took him over the Atlantic. There are three bars in the French Quarter where Whitney goes to pick up his sexual partners, and they’re all being avidly watched by FBI agents. Sherlock and Tate will stay in a hotel in the French Quarter close enough to these establishments that Sherlock can reach them within ten minutes. As soon as they get confirmation that Whitney has settled in one of these bars, Sherlock will walk in and use his considerable skills in seduction to get picked up by Whitney.

Both the American and English teams know that this is the plan, which means they all know that Sherlock’s sexuality, while not explicitly acknowledged, is clearly fluid enough to allow him to go undercover as a gay man to seduce another gay man, after which gay sex acts will almost certainly take place. Sherlock isn’t happy about the fact that fifty people know he’s likely to have sex with the target. He’s always been an intensely private man, though not because he cares what people think. So, he’s surprised at how defensive he gets at the homophobic reception he encounters when he’s briefed by the FBI after landing in New Orleans.

Sherlock is standing in the FBI satellite office with two men. One is his handler, Emery Tate. The other is the Special Agent in Charge, Lester Bradley. They are both very good at what they do and Sherlock knows better than to underestimate them. Five minutes into the meeting, though, Sherlock is gnawing on his thumbnail and ready to throw something. He and Bradley are engaged in verbal warfare and Sherlock knows he should resist, but he’s wired from spending fourteen hours on a plane with the contingent of MI6 agents Mycroft sent to babysit him. The nastier Bradley gets, the more imperious and disdainful Sherlock gets, which pisses Bradley off and round and round they go.

“You looking forward to gettin’ some, Holmes?” the SAC asks, leering.

Sherlock can guess what he means by _gettin’ some_ but he plays it safe and says tersely, “I’m looking forward to destroying Moriarty’s people.”

“He’s an ugly fucker,” Bradley says. “Wouldn’t wanna be in your position. ‘Course, I’m too ugly for a man to find me attractive, but you have a pretty face. I’m sure he’ll like you just fine.”

Sherlock says nothing.

“I don’t know how you’ll do it, Holmes,” Tate says and shudders. “My skin crawls just thinking about him looking at me.”

“Holmes here’s British. They’re a little more… _liberal_ ‘bout them kinda things,” Bradley says in his faux _good ole’ boy_ voice.

Sherlock can’t hide the look of disbelief that crosses his face at this proclamation.

“In case you’ve forgotten,” Sherlock says coldly, looking at Bradley and then at Tate. “We are bringing down a human trafficking ring. Women are being turned into prostitutes when their only crime is wanting American citizenship - “

“Oh, fuck you, Holmes. You European agents are all the same. You think you’re so fucking superior to Americans - “

“If you don’t want me here, Bradley, why isn’t one of your agents in my place? Oh, wait, let me guess - taking down a _human trafficking ring_ is apparently not important enough for one of them to get down on their knees and suck a bit of cock - “

“Okay, that’s _enough_!” Bradley roars, jumping to his feet. Then to Tate, he says, “Get him out of here!”

Tate rushes to chivvy Sherlock out of the office as he and Bradley stare daggers at each other.

“Listen, I’m sorry, that was my fault - “

“Shut the fuck up,” Sherlock says, his voice cold steel.

Tate shuts the fuck up.

~*~

Tate doesn’t talk during the drive to their hotel, and Sherlock gradually begins to relax. He needs to get out and walk the French Quarter and surrounding area, to breathe in the smell of New Orleans and interact with her people, to immerse himself in this city of contradictions. New Orleans is a fusion of decadence and innocence, of darkness and light. New Orleans is a metaphor for Sherlock and John.

New Orleans is also the perfect place to establish a headquarters for a human trafficking ring. There is the long stretch of coastline on the Gulf of Mexico including the vast network of bayous and swamps along the coast. New Orleans is on the Mississippi River, which feeds into most of the major and minor rivers of America, and runs all the way to Duluth, Minnesota where it meets up with the St. Louis River which empties into Lake Superior. It is the water highway of America. It gives the enterprise a way into Canada and, through Louisiana and into Texas, a way into Mexico. If the FBI and MI6, i.e., Sherlock, can get near the leadership, they can take down the entire structure.

Sherlock knows that his hunt for Moriarty’s people is about revenge as much as protecting John, but there’s guilt and shame mixed in as well. He loved playing the game with Moriarty. In his very darkest moments, he misses Moriarty and their little dance. He wanted to impress Moriarty just as much as he wanted to stop him. His confrontation with Moriarty on the rooftop of St. Bart’s wasn’t only a blow to Sherlock’s belief in his own supremacy, it was a glimpse into the abyss that Sherlock has been skirting for too many years to count.

When you’re the smartest person in the room, but rarely praised for it; when you know all the answers but nobody wants to hear them; when nobody can understand you because the way you think seems to them like magic, rather than logic, you spend your life in isolation. There is always a darkness creeping up behind you, flanking you, threatening to overpower you. What’s the point of being a genius when you have no audience?

John isn’t just the audience to Sherlock’s genius, though. He’s the light in the cold dark; the hymn in the empty church; the path through the thorn-sharp thicket. Without John, Sherlock may as well be living in a vacuum. Moriarty threatened to burn the heart out of Sherlock. John is his heart and he’ll do whatever it takes to obliterate that threat.

~*~

Blaine Whitney has a legitimate business, a financial or insurance company of some type. Sherlock hasn’t bothered memorizing the details despite Tate’s insistence. It’s much easier maintaining his cover if he doesn’t have to fake _not_ knowing something, especially if he _shouldn’t_ know it. Honestly, no wonder the FBI and MI6 couldn’t catch Moriarty, if learning every fact about the target in a rote schoolroom fashion is their idea of preparation. Too much of life is lived unpredictably to waste time learning facts instead of gathering information _in situ_.

Sherlock has no compunctions about seducing Blaine Whitney. All he cares about is destroying Moriarty and he has no problem fucking someone to do that. Sherlock is good at turning off his moral compass, especially when it comes to sex. He’s never had an interest in romance but he has always had a very high libido. It’s taken him years to rein it in, and now he gets to let it out of its cage and hope it doesn’t destroy him.

Sherlock is posing as a history professor from London, in the area to research the birth of Creole. His alias is Colin Green. If Blaine chooses to investigate Colin Green’s background, he’ll find plenty on the Internet to convince him Sherlock is who he claims to be. On Sherlock’s fourth night in New Orleans, Blaine is spotted in one of the places he frequents to pull sexual partners and Sherlock gets the order to go.

He spots Blaine as soon as he walks in. Blaine is not quite, as Bradley so inelegantly described him, “an ugly fucker.” He’s three inches taller than Sherlock has broad shoulders, and is well-muscled without being bulky. He certainly doesn’t look like he heads a human trafficking ring. His dark brown eyes are large and round, and ringed in thick black lashes. He keeps his light, golden-brown hair cut neatly, and his skin is the same color as his hair.

It’s a Wednesday night and, according to the chalk sign over the bar, drinks are half off. Sherlock sits down on a bar stool close enough to Blaine that he’ll be able to lean over to talk to Sherlock but not so close as to make Blaine nervous. When the bartender comes over, Sherlock orders Hennessy. Aside from the fact that Sherlock likes cognac, it’s the kind of classy drink that makes a statement.

Tucked into Blaine’s flat front khakis is a button-down shirt in aubergine. Underneath he wears a plain white t-shirt. His cuffs are rolled to his forearms. Black monk straps with a double buckle complete the ensemble. A boiled wool coat in navy is thrown over the back of his barstool. It’s January, and even New Orleans is subject to the cold grasp of winter. Blaine’s clothes show his body to its best advantage without being fussy.

Sherlock is dressed in light grey chinos and a blue V-neck jumper over a light blue collared shirt. The hem and cuffs of his shirt are visible, giving him a rumpled, and – he hopes – professorial appearance. He sheds his brown corduroy jacket as soon as he gets in the bar. The clothes are comfortable and not wholly different from what he’s used to wearing. He hasn’t had to change his hair or anything else of significance, which is always a plus. They’re not the brands a professor can afford, but they make a statement. _I’m classy, wealthy, well-educated and here for the same thing as you_. The bar isn’t a gay bar, as such, but it’s known as a place to hook up with other men, and the average age of its patrons is thirty-nine. Since Blaine doesn’t go for young men - too prone to sentiment, too unpredictable - Sherlock doesn’t even have to fake a different personality.

It takes Blaine a mere twenty-seven minutes to chat him up. After another eighty excruciating minutes of tedious conversation, Blaine asks Sherlock to leave with him. As soon as they’re out of the bar, Blaine drags him around the corner and kisses him. Blaine’s lips are bruising in their intensity. Sherlock knows it’s been almost two months since Blaine’s last lover and his lips attack Sherlock’s with a desperate hunger.

Sherlock should be surprised at the feeling of desire that unfurls low in his belly as Blaine’s tongue breaches his lips, but he’s not. Sherlock used to share Blaine’s method for acquiring lovers until John moved in. After that, Sherlock only allowed himself the rare one night stand. He knew from the moment they met that he was attracted to John, but it wasn't until Moriarty strapped the latest fashion in exploding outerwear on John that Sherlock realized he was in love with him. Sherlock hasn't slept with anyone since then. 

When Blaine’s hands cup Sherlock’s arse, all that pent-up lust comes tumbling out of him, along with a moan. Encouraged, Blaine angles a leg in between Sherlock’s and Sherlock shamelessly grinds his burgeoning erection against Blaine’s thigh. Blaine groans in sympathy and pushes his brawny hands under Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock hisses as cold fingers plow furrows in his skin from waist almost to shoulder. Blaine’s hands are impeded by Sherlock’s clothes.

Sherlock begins to get lost in the fog of sexual desire, and when Blaine unbuttons Sherlock’s trousers, he doesn’t immediately react. When Blaine jerks down the zipper and the icy air hits his erection, though, he shoves Blaine away.

“Stop,” Sherlock snaps and puts himself back together.

“Come home with me,” Blaine murmurs into Sherlock’s ear. “My apartment is only a few blocks away.”

Sherlock can’t answer because his mouth is once again assaulted by Blaine’s. Blaine slides his tongue along Sherlock’s, then swirls it around, sliding out, sucking as he goes. Abruptly, he lets go of Sherlock’s tongue and body, leaving Sherlock stumbling.

“Careful,” Blaine says, amused, and reaches for Sherlock’s hips to steady him.

Sherlock attempts to rearrange his clothes into a semblance of decency while ignoring Blaine’s grin. He’s also stalling for time while he thinks.

“I can’t. I’ve just arrived from London today and the airline lost my luggage,” Sherlock says, the lie fabricated on the spot in case he decides not to go home with Blaine tonight. “I don’t even have a toothbrush.”

“God, your fucking _voice_. It’s so fucking _hot_ ,” Blaine groans.

He takes Sherlock’s hand and presses it against his crotch, ostensibly to make clear how _hot_ , exactly, he finds Sherlock’s voice. Despite his irritation, Sherlock indulges in rubbing the heel of his hand against Blaine’s erection and smiles viciously when Blaine parts his lips and sucks in a shuddering breath.

“Why don’t I just talk while you toss off in the alley?” Sherlock asks, letting that public-school arrogance infuse his voice.

“No,” Blaine says, his fingers reaching up to pinch Sherlock’s lips closed. It hurts but Sherlock refuses to squirm out of Blaine’s grip. “I wanna fuck.”

“Obviously,” Sherlock says and doesn’t have to fake the imperious note in his voice. Men like Blaine love men like Sherlock. It’s a simple example of wanting what you can’t have except in this case, Blaine gets to have him.

“Fuck,” Blaine groans and grabs Sherlock again.

The two of them are kissing and rutting against each other for a good ten minutes before Blaine pulls away. They’re both panting.

“Come home with me,” Blaine says again but without the aggressive confidence of earlier. He’s far more undone than Sherlock and Sherlock is fucking undone.

Sherlock hesitates. The minute he goes home with Blaine, he’s on his own. He can contact Tate via his mobile, but there won’t be any quick rescue if Blaine hurts him, and even though there’s no evidence that Blaine treats his lovers anything but courteously (and bounteously, to go by the price tags on some of his gifts), Sherlock wants to make sure his cock isn’t the one making the decision for him.

Sherlock nods once and Blaine’s face breaks out into boyish delight. Sherlock can almost forget he runs a human trafficking ring.

~*~

Blaine’s flat in the French Quarter must cost thousands of dollars a month, and yet it’s only two bedrooms. It’s tastefully decorated in a style Sherlock thinks of as Wealthy White Man. Wood paneling, dark leather couches. Lots of brown and black and expensive wood.

“Drink?” Blaine asks, hanging up his jacket. He takes Sherlock’s, too.

“If I wanted a drink, I would have stayed at the bar,” Sherlock says, making his voice low and seductive.

Inside the flat, Blaine’s persona changes. He’s a life-long bottom, which is part of the reason an agent had to die to get the information that Blaine is gay - being caught fucking another man might be forgiven by Blaine’s Catholic family and the other (largely Catholic) criminals he works with, but taking it up the arse? Unforgivable. This is the only place Blaine allows himself to completely lose his heterosexual shell and the transformation is almost comical.

“Do you need a drink, Blaine?” Sherlock purrs, stalking towards Blaine with predatory ease. “A little Dutch courage, perhaps?”

“I was just being polite, Colin,” Blaine says, tilting his head back. He’s looking down his nose at Sherlock but somehow makes it seem coquettish.

“I hardly think there’s a need for pleasantries at this point,” Sherlock says, stopping right in front of him.

He reaches for the top button on Blaine’s shirt. This is the first time he’s been shorter than someone he’s had sex with and it’s disconcerting. Height makes a difference in power differential, something he’s never considered, a shocking oversight on his part. Is height the reason why John has always been so faithful in following him? Does he see Sherlock as having more authority than him? No, that’s ridiculous. John is full of his own quiet authority. On cases, Sherlock has authority because that’s his expertise. Hell, Lestrade is almost the same height as Sherlock and he’s an idiot. A very competent idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.

Now is not the time to be thinking about Lestrade and it’s definitely not the time to be thinking of John.

Sherlock turns undressing Blaine into the sartorial equivalent of foreplay - he strokes a fingertip over every button before slipping it through the placket. Every few buttons, he skims his lips over Blaine’s but pulls away before tongues can get involved. The fate of hundreds of women (and John) lies in Sherlock’s ability to seduce Blaine so well that he keeps Sherlock around long enough for Sherlock to gather the intel he needs. Blaine can pay for sex if he has no other options. Sherlock needs Blaine to need him. Blaine should be so besotted that he lowers his guard.

By the time Sherlock has undressed Blaine down to his pants, Blaine is breathing hard and his pupils have almost blotted out his irises. His lids are at half-mast because his pupils are so large that the light is too bright. Sherlock is still dressed and Blaine’s hands are reaching for his buttons with clumsy intent and Sherlock takes that opportunity to slip his fingers into Blaine’s pants. He takes a few steps away, his fingers tugging from inside the waistband of Blaine's pants. He follows obediently and Sherlock almost laughs. Blaine's pants have turned into a leash.

Sherlock leads Blaine to his own bedroom with nothing but two fingers. Blaine could brush past him to get there first, but he doesn’t. He falter-steps along in Sherlock’s wake, utterly agog. Inside the bedroom, Sherlock turns to Blaine, lines his body up against Blaine’s and then puts slow pressure on him, forcing him to walk backwards or get stepped on. Blaine doesn’t look back to see where he’s going and ends up tumbling onto his own bed with a surprised face. This time Sherlock does laugh.

“You said you wanted to fuck,” Sherlock says, with an aristocratic arch of his eyebrows. “Let’s fuck.”

Sherlock drags Blaine’s preparation out in the same way he did undressing him. It’s not necessary to keep adding the slippery gel to his fingers or to keep pushing them in and out of Blaine’s arsehole, but Sherlock does it anyway. Blaine’s prick drips and drips, and still Sherlock fucks him with his fingers, letting the tip of his middle finger caress Blaine’s prostate at random intervals. He takes his fingers out altogether and Blaine’s focus zeroes on Sherlock. Sherlock strokes Blaine’s dick, his grip too tight, the strokes just enough for Blaine to begin panting, and then he stops and shoves three fingers back into Blaine. Another drop of pre-cum falls on Blaine’s belly. Sherlock takes a savage pleasure in watching Blaine’s face as he twists and pulls inside Blaine’s body.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes!” Blaine yelps as Sherlock presses too hard on his prostate.

“I’ll do it, if you want me to, but you have to ask.”

“You want me to beg?” Blaine asks, trying for dismissive but sounding eager instead.

“What makes you think I want you to beg?” Sherlock asks, with a tilt of his head.

Another furious twist of his wrist and another drop of pre-ejaculate plops on top of the puddle of existing fluid on Blaine’s belly.

“Fuck me,” Blaine moans.

“You only had to ask,” Sherlock says.

Sherlock doesn’t bother undressing. He unfastens his trousers and pushes trousers and pants down to mid-thigh, pulls on a condom, squeezes some gel on it and then pushes into Blaine with one vicious thrust. Blaine cries out, and Sherlock stops, worried he’s been too rough. The look on Blaine’s face is ecstasy and his hands scrabble for purchase on Sherlock’s biceps. Blaine calls out the name of a man who doesn’t exist and that makes fucking him easier for Sherlock. He’s Colin Green right now and Mr. Green doesn’t know Dr. Watson and, therefore, has no reason to feel guilty for fucking a man who runs in human trafficking.

Sherlock fucks Blaine with his cock the same way he fucked him with his fingers – slowly, inexorably, ferociously.

There’s an illicit thrill and a brutal pleasure in fucking Blaine. He looks at Sherlock like Sherlock has opened a secret door into a pleasure heretofore unknown. In fact, he looks at Sherlock like he’s opened a door to an entire new way of living. The fact that Sherlock hasn’t even undressed, the disdain he shows towards Blaine (which he doesn’t have to fake) makes Blaine want him even more. It will become a push and pull between them for the next five weeks. The more he wants Sherlock and the less Sherlock gives, the harder Blaine falls.

For now, though, Sherlock loses himself in a slow fuck, a long, sensual slide towards orgasm with a step that’s just above homeostasis so that his orgasm sneaks up on him, rips through him, shredding meat and bone. Fireflies of light dance to the edges of his vision and still he’s coming. Blaine fists his own dick furiously, breathing _Colin Colin Colin_ as he does and comes with a furious spurt of semen that shoots so far that it lands on his chin. When they’re both done, Sherlock scoops a fingertip of semen from Blaine’s chin and puts it against Blaine’s lips.

“I’ve never tasted my own cum,” Blaine says, panting.

He’s not flirting or challenging Sherlock. He’s making a declaration. _I’ve never tasted my own cum and I’m not about to start now_. Sherlock says nothing. He keeps his fingertip lightly pressed on Blaine’s lip, not pushing in but not pulling away, and waits. He doesn’t have to wait long. After eleven seconds, Blaine closes his mouth over Sherlock’s fingertip and sucks the semen off it. Sherlock pulls back his hand and Blaine lets go of his finger with a pop.

Sherlock smiles slowly, a dangerous, soft smile. He pulls out of Blaine, ties off the condom and drops it on Blaine’s stomach. Then he tucks himself away and walks out of the bedroom.

“Call me if you want me to fuck you again,” he says over his shoulder.

It only took Sherlock twenty minutes in the bar to determine Blaine’s sexual fantasies and Sherlock has just fulfilled them all. Sherlock is the bait, the hook, the fishing line, and the fisherman - Sherlock is everything Blaine has ever wanted and Blaine wants it all.

~*~

Five weeks later, Sherlock gets caught downloading information from Blaine’s laptop to his phone. Blaine is supposed to be sleeping - Sherlock made sure of it by dropping an orally disintegrating barbiturate tab in his wine before they went to bed. Sherlock has done the same thing three times before and it always works. It should’ve worked this time, yet Blaine is standing in the living room blinking at Sherlock, looking groggy but becoming more focused by the second.

Sherlock keeps downloading the information because there’s no point to stopping. His instructions are clear - any threat to the mission must be neutralized and there’s no grey areas for intelligence gathering. Sherlock fucked up and now Blaine must die.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Blaine asks, swaying a little where he stands.

He looks so vulnerable standing there naked, his soft penis curled up against his thigh like a sleeping mushroom. Sherlock begins to catalogue the things Blaine will never do again. He’ll never need to wear clothes again. He’ll never use his penis again. He’ll never again see his children, whom he loves, or his wife, who he doesn’t.

“I work for MI6. I’m gathering information. They want to take down your trafficking ring,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, moving closer to Blaine by increments, not wanting to startle him into action.

“You know about that?”

“Yes.”

There’s a glimpse of something desperate flickering in Blaine’s eyes. He knows exactly what’s going on here and Sherlock can almost believe that Blaine wants this to happen, that he wants to get rid of the burden of running a criminal enterprise. Maybe he’s tired of playing the straight man with the beautiful wife and two small daughters. Maybe he’s tired of never allowing himself to keep a lover longer than a few weeks. (Sherlock has been the longest.)

“But I told you I loved you,” Blaine says plaintively.

“I have to give them something,” Sherlock says. “Or they’ll - “

Sherlock stops, looks stricken. Holds the pose.

Sherlock reminds himself of the other things Blaine won’t need once he’s dead. He’ll never need to kidnap women. He’ll never need to turn them into prostitutes. He’ll never need to pull another lover in the pub three streets down.

“What happens if you don’t?” Blaine asks.

Sherlock looks distraught. “They’ll take me out.”

“Like kill you?”

“They will kill me,” Sherlock says.

It’s a ridiculous lie, but Sherlock can see the resolve in Blaine’s eyes.

“I have passports and cash. I can get you what you need, too. We can get into Mexico and then you can disappear,” Blaine says.

“What about you?” Sherlock asks.

“I can’t leave my kids, but once you’re safely away, and they stop coming after you, I can get you set up somewhere close.”

So, Sherlock leaves his phone next to the laptop connected by the little USB umbilical cord. He walks slowly over to Blaine and slides his fingers over Blaine’s jaw.

“You would do that for me?” he asks, conveying tentative hope.

“Baby, I told you. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

Blaine’s hands come up to cup Sherlock’s face and they kiss - it’s gentle and sweet.

“Come to bed,” Sherlock says, drawing him back towards the bedroom. “Let’s forget all that for just one more moment.”

Sherlock kneels over Blaine on the bed, caresses his cheek, kisses his chin and then his eyes. He moves up his chest, cold fingertips digging against Blaine's skin just enough to be pleasant, but not so light as to tickle. Gentle kisses then tender touches, until Blaine is relaxing under him, the barbiturate taking effect again.

Sherlock launches into the attack. He pins Blaine’s arms down at the elbow, presses his forearm against Blaine’s neck, wrapping his other hand around that wrist, and puts all his weight into it.

The look of betrayal on Blaine’s face is expected. The tears Sherlock sees drip, drip, dripping onto Blaine’s cheeks and forehead are unexpected. He presses soft kisses against Blaine’s jaw, the corner of his mouth, his temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as Blaine’s struggles become more aggressive. The survival instinct having one last hurrah with a dump of adrenaline. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Shh.”

He whispers it repeatedly, even as Blaine bucks and shoves his body against Sherlock, but Sherlock is stronger and heavier than he appears and Sherlock’s knees are dug into the insides of his elbow so he’s already lost feeling in his hands.

Sherlock weeps. It takes so long for him to die. One minute turns into two. Blaine’s struggles gradually decrease. Two minutes turn into three. Blaine is limp but still alive. Sherlock doesn’t take any weight off his forearm. Four minutes. Five. Six.

Sherlock’s shaking fingers don’t find a pulse. He lays his head on Blaine’s chest and waits. His heart is pounding so hard he can’t tell if Blaine’s heart is beating. He hears nothing.

Carefully, Sherlock gets off Blaine and then the bed. His legs give out and he crumples to the floor, banging the outside of his bicep on the edge of the bedside table. The motion knocks the lampshade askew - it settles at a flirty angle, tilted just slightly. He stares at Blaine’s chest, but it’s not rising and falling. There’s no heartbeat, no breath.

Sherlock’s whole body is shaking. He knows he’s on the verge of having a panic attack. He takes deep breaths, holds them, and lets them out slowly. He stands up even slower, afraid he’ll faint and Blaine will come back to life and murder him. Fanciful stuff, but he’s not really working well enough to use logic yet.

When his heart and his respiration rate have returned to normal, he calls for cleanup. He gives Tate the phone loaded with all the information he’s gathered. Mutely, he follows Tate out to the car.

Once he’s safely back in his hotel room, he buries his head into the pillow and sobs. He knows he felt nothing for Blaine and now that he’s dead, the world is relieved of one bad guy. The thing is - he knows Blaine really was in love with him. It was the kind of love that can turn a bad guy into a good guy, and Sherlock knows this because that’s the kind of love he has for John Watson.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, thank you to Boonchandi and StarlingGirl30, for wrangling my grammar and punctuation. I can never thank you guys enough and you're probably getting sick of it, in which case NO THANK YOU. Totally kidding.  
> ...
> 
> This series is only just beginning. There are eleven parts total to be posted every Sunday. Nine more still to go! So SUBSCRIBE!  
> ...
> 
> Email me at archiveofmyown@gmail.com with a link to your favorite Sherlock/original male character or John/original male character fanfic, whether johnlock is the ending or not. They're some of my faves!


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